She was scarcely able to converse, but voluntarily called upon us to teach her the Lord's prayer, and the catechism. Her mother ask.. ed her, if she loved God? She replied, Yes, ma'm. She was asked again, Have you a mind to go and live with him? After a short pause, she said, Yes, ma'm, I have a mind to go and live with my heavenly Father. About 10 o'clock, the family were called in, suppo. sing that she was expiring; but reviving, she raised her head, and said she wanted to say the Lord's prayer, which she distinctly repeated. After panting for breath, she cried, More, and then repeated an evening prayer for children; and when she recovered her breath, still said, More, and then repeated a morning prayer af ter me. I then asked her, if she loved God? She said, Yes, sir. Do you wish to go and live with him? Yes, sir. I then prayed with her; and she gave me as good attention, as if she had been an adult. When prayer was ended, she again cried, More; but was so far spent, that she could not articulate distinctly. After resting awhile in slumber, she raised her feeble head, and, with a placid countenance, several times repeated, O my God! O my God! and then her voice faltered. On the 11th, she could scarcely speak intelligibly, but was, however, heard again distinctly to say, O my God! O my God! She looked us full in the face, and said, I love God. And from the motion of her lips, we judged that she times, to repeat the same.

attempted, several Soon after, she re

signed her breath, aged 4 years. We took our long farewell of her with resignation; and had the strongest confidence that she was going to be for ever with the Lord. This confidence arose not so much from any thing she had said in her sickness, as from our faith in the efficacy of prayer. We trusted in the mercy of a prayer-hearing God.

January 27, 1783. My dear companion was attacked with the rheumatism, which produced most distressing pain, and every alarming symptom.

March 3. The afflictive stroke of death, this day, left me to mourn the loss of the kindest of wives, and five affectionate children to grieve for the tenderest of mothers. And though I considered my loss irreparable in this world, yet I had the inexpressible consolation, that there was no occasion of mourning for her, but only for myself and children. To harbour a doubt of her being with Christ, would be tantamount to a disbelief of the Scriptures; for I had every testimonial of her interest in Jesus, which a life of peculiar conformity to their requirements, could give. She made few observations, in her last sickness, concerning her departure; for she had, as it were, said every thing in health. She had nothing to do but die. However, she said much to her children, counselling and admonishing them. She was told by a physician, that her case was desperate, which declaration she received with as much composure,

as if told it was time to go to church. She calmly replied, that it was a great thing to exchange worlds, and leave such a family as hers; but, if her time had come, the thought of death, or its consequences, did not terrify her. My constant resort, in this peculiar time of need, was at the footstool of Almighty Grace; and there I found help. I had, I trust, true submission of heart given me; and when I took her by the hand, to bid her the long farewell, was enabled to say, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord."

[Having filled the space in the volume, which was designed for this part of the Memoir, the Compiler begs leave to state to the reader, that for the want of room, he has been obliged very greatly to abridge the Author's extract; and for the same reason, is now com. pelled to leave a large part of it untouched. And he would further state, from a perusal of the remaining part of the extract, that it exhibits more uniform enjoyment of the sensible presence of God, greater engagedness in Christian duty, growing conformity to the Divine character, and increasing fitness for the heavenly inheritance.]

LETTERS.

Amherst, February 4, 1779.

MY DEAR AND Only BROTHER,

PERMIT me to take the liberty of inter

rupting your thoughts with a few considerations, on a more interesting subject than commonly is wont to engross the attention of mankind. If they are needless, they can do no harm; and if any part of them should be reasonable, I hope you will do yourself the kindness to make a wise improvement of them. I desire to call up your attention to the dangerous risk we all incur, while unprepared to die. If you are ready, at any time, at any hour, to meet the king of terrors, you are a happy man; but if not, I pray you, my brother, to consider, and look around, and behold the situation you are in. You know that you must die; and how soon, you know not. You have lived to see many, in the prime of life, cut down in a few days. Have you considered what your situation would have been, if you had, among others, been called away by death, in the last sickness in town? Or have you duly reflected upon the mercy of God in sparing you? He has seen fit, in his gracious

L

providence, to spare you, not only through a time of special sickness, but to a day of the out-pouring of his Holy Spirit, when a number around you are working out their salvation with fear and trembling! And have not those who, in such a time, remain unmoved, and can see their neighbours and friends pressing into the kingdom of heaven, without being aroused to join them, great reason to fear that they shall be finally left of God to hardness of heart? This solemn season will, in all probability, soon close; and if you neglect the concerns of your soul now, where is the probability that you will attend to them in a time of stupidity? If you now say to the Spirit of God, Depart from me," can you expect that he will then return, even if you should wish it? Is not the probability of your being awakened, every day decreasing, while you continue in sin? If perchance you should live to witness another revival, which is very uncertain, (as they usually occur but seldom,) will there not be far less probability of your being made a subject?. The natural heart continually increases in hardness. Oh, my dear brother! did you but know the worth of time, as it is big with eternal consequences, it would be impossible for you to neglect a preparation for death, one day, or one hour. You feel the worth of time in regard to temporal concerns, and are diligent and industrious in its improvement, to gain a portion of the world, and provide for your body, which must so soon turn to dust